CHAPTER II.

THE “NEW GIRL.”

“And was her grandfather really an earl?”

“And shall we have to call her Lady Gwendoline when we speak to her?”

“I wonder what she is like; I am dying to see her!”

“She is coming to-night; but perhaps Miss Elder won’t trot her out until to-morrow.”

What an excited hubbub was going on in Meldon Hall schoolroom. The girls had been told that a new pupil would arrive that night. This alone, in mid-term, would have been enough to arouse some interest, but when it got abroad by some means or another that the importation was a beauty, an heiress, and related to an earl, their excitement knew no bounds.

Marion Edwards, perched on the back of a chair, gave out what she had heard, and a little more, to an admiring audience who took Marion’s words for vastly more than they were worth. In every school there are one or two leading spirits, and Meldon Hall had at present two leaders—Marion Edwards and Edith Barclay. Edith was the clever, studious girl of the school; and amongst those who were inclined to be industrious, she was looked up to with great reverence. Marion was handsome, rich, and had an aptitude for making witty remarks, which made her at once admired and feared by her “set.” The two leaders were quite friendly; they were in no wise rivals of each other, being altogether different in disposition and aims. Edith loved study for study’s sake, and had secret thoughts of entering a profession. Marion cared nothing for her lessons, but easily managed to get along in a superficial way; she was an only daughter and rich, and was looking forward to entering society after she left school. Marion’s feelings were divided between pleasure at the prospect of knowing a girl whose grandfather was an earl, and a secret fear that this rich beauty might want to queen it even over her, and that her set might forsake her for the greater light.

The only one who was really indifferent to the new arrival was Linnæa. She had had her times of hidden excitement over an expected newcomer, and vague longings that she might be “nice,” but these feelings were over and done, with long ago. Successive disappointments had embittered her, and now it was a matter of little moment to her who came and went. This night she had a slight headache and felt tired of her schoolfellows’ chatter and not inclined to face the introduction of a new girl, proud and haughty, who would doubtless criticise her looks and manners and set her down—as all the others had done—as hopelessly unattractive. She therefore slipped quietly away to her room.

“Oh, I do wish Miss Elder would bring her in to-night!” said one; and, as if in response to her wish, the door opened and the principal entered, followed by the new girl.

“This is Miss Gwendoline Rivers,” said Miss Elder, introducing a few of the girls who were nearest her by name. “I shall leave her with you for twenty minutes, but after that she must go to bed, as she has come a long way to-day.”

Shyness was not one of the new pupil’s failings, and she asked more questions than she answered. Soon she had found out all the rules and regulations of the school, and had taken mental note of a few of the characters around her. Report had been correct as far as her beauty and wealth were concerned—her connection with the earl was a little more remote—she was indeed a lovely girl. Her dark eyes were large and lustrous, and her face had an almost southern richness of colouring. Her appearance was aristocratic to a degree, and her clothes were expensive and in the best of taste.

THE DUNCE OF THE SCHOOL.

“Are you all here?” she said by-and-by, looking round on the group.

“All except two. Alice Melrose is in bed with neuralgia, and Linnæa March has retired for the night.”

“And, pray, why has Linnæa March retired for the night? Had she not the curiosity to wait up and see the newest thing in girls? I suppose she knew I should arrive to-night, as you all did, and I know you were all dying for me to put in an appearance so that you might deluge me with questions. But I think I have got more out of you than you have out of me. I find the only way to avoid too many questions is to ask a great many yourself. Tell me about Miss March, please; I am quite excited. What an outlandish name, too? She is altogether very mysterious!”

“There is not much to tell about Linnæa March, as you will soon know. You will find the best way is to leave her alone, for, as sure as fate, she will not trouble herself about you, any more than she has about the rest of us.”

“But that is precisely what I never do! I never allow anyone to be indifferent to me; they may hate me, if they please, but they shall not be indifferent!”

“You don’t know Linnæa. I don’t believe she knows what love and hate are—love, at least; she might manage to hate you, perhaps!”

“I shall make her love me then!”

The girls laughed. There was something very fresh and original about this young lady who spoke as if the world and anything in it were hers for the asking. It was easily seen she had not been denied much during her life, and most of them felt very much inclined to carry on the spoiling process if only they might be termed friends of this beautiful and determined young woman; for if there is anything young people worship, it is determination. But to talk of making Linnæa March love her was a little too absurd.

“How long is it since this unimpressionable young lady left the company? She won’t be in bed yet, will she? One of you go up to her room and tell her the new girl wants to see her, and bring her down.”

Really, this was most ridiculous! Who was to go and give this extraordinary message to Linnæa March? As if to-morrow were not soon enough to see her! Whoever went would not get a very great reception.

“Has she a chum here?”

“She has no chum at all.”

“Then do you go!” said the imperious Miss Rivers, pointing to a pleasant-looking girl beside her. “Listen to me,” said Gwendoline, when the messenger had departed; “I mean to make this Linnæa March like me; in fact, I mean to make her fall over head and ears in love with me, and none of you must say a word to influence her in any way. I have never yet made up my mind to do a thing that I have not done, and I shall show you that I can do this.”

The excitement of the school was aroused, and the girls awaited with great interest the development of the comedy to be enacted in their midst. Would it be a comedy or a tragedy? If, as she boasted, Gwendoline Rivers were able to awaken the love which lay dormant in that sensitive heart, woe to Linnæa if she should discover the motive which had called it forth; it would run a chance of souring her whole after life.

After a few minutes the door opened and the messenger returned, accompanied by Linnæa.

“Now, you know, I don’t think it was nice of you to go off to bed without waiting to see me!” said Gwendoline, advancing towards her with a smile and holding out her hand.

Linnæa’s sensitive face flushed.

“I am sorry if I appeared rude,” she said; “I did not think of it.”

“You will be forgiven this time; but”—looking serious—“I hope you have not a headache; if so, I shall be sorry I brought you down.”

“Oh, no, thank you! I am quite well. I often go up earlier than the others.”

“Well, I sha’n’t keep you down long, for I am going to bed myself. I shall go up with you now and try if I can find my cubicle again.”

Calling good-night to the others, Gwendoline slipped her arm through Linnæa’s, and the two walked away in the direction of the stairs.

“How strange it is, coming in amongst a lot of girls one has never seen before! It is fortunate for me I am not shy, else, I suppose, I should feel dreadfully put out. How long have you been here?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven years! Such a long time to be away from home!”

“My father and mother are out in India. I shall go there when I am finished with school.”

“Oh, how splendid! I should love to go to India. I have a brother who went out last year, and when I leave school I mean to pay him a visit. Perhaps we may happen to go together. Wouldn’t that be nice? Is this your cubicle? Horrid, bare places, aren’t they? I was warned about it and brought some pictures and things with me; but I sha’n’t unpack them to-night—I am too sleepy. Shall we say good-night, then? I somehow think we shall be friends.”

Gwendoline, as she spoke, leant over and kissed Linnæa on the cheek, then ran away to find her bedroom.

“Funny, quiet little thing!” said Gwendoline as she went. “I wonder if I shall make good my words? She seemed almost workable to-night. I was prepared to brave a few snubs to begin with.”

And what about Linnæa? She did not begin to undress at once as usual. Why was she so excited to-night? Something had come over her, and it was nothing more nor less than a subtle magnetism towards this beautiful girl who had taken more notice of her than of any of the others—who had kissed her when she bade her good-night. Why had she felt so wooden and stupid? Why had she not returned the kiss? What must this girl think of her?

She was in bed at last, but could not sleep. She seemed to feel the kiss on her cheek and hear the voice saying they might be friends. By-and-by, when sleep came, she dreamt that her father and mother had come to school to take her home—the time she had looked forward to through all the seven years—and she told them she wanted to stay another year because Gwendoline had come.

(To be continued.)

[THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH: AUNT OF THE QUEEN.][2]

The letters of a favourite daughter of George III., and an aunt of the Queen, whose life extended through the eventful period 1770-1840, make a book of great interest and permanent value. The period referred to takes in some of the more momentous events in modern history—the loss of the American colonies, the French Revolution, the battle of Waterloo, and the fall of Napoleon—as well as various important parliamentary movements at home. Letter-writing is now generally supposed to be a lost art; but the Princess Elizabeth, as one who “ever remained an Englishwoman to the backbone,” wrote letters of the genuine old-time order to her confidante. She imposed wholesome restraint on herself in days when party spirit was more violent than we can realise; but being in fullest accord with her father, who aimed at personal government, her sympathy was rather for the cause of “Church and King than for that of reform and progress.” The Princess did not deal in scandal, however, she was not a politician, and in other respects she showed a delicacy of language not common in those times.

In reference to his heroine, Mr. Yorke says that “the familiarity of her style brings us all the closer to her, and the more familiar it is the more intimate becomes our friendship for her. Sometimes it is the case that where the style is most imperfect, there most appear the individuality and originality of the Princess, and her portrait drawn by herself must be of more value and interest to us than any accuracy or polish of diction.” The Princess also loved her friends, and this led her to write to them con amore, so that, as we read, “a whiff of old times is breathed upon us.” She was in the best sense a woman of her own times, one who inherited her father’s good qualities; and during the ailments of youth she proved her good constitution by surviving the medical treatment of the day. A girl of fifteen in these days may still be liable to congestion of the lungs, but what would she now say to being bled five times in forty-eight hours, to having to take “emetics every other day,” and to having her “backbones rubbed with musk?” In other respects the Princess seems to have been subjected to very old-fashioned treatment. Even at the age of twenty-six she was not allowed to read a book which her mother had not previously examined. Nor does she appear to have possessed an income of her own until she was forty-two years old. The Princess was six years older when she married Frederick VI. of Hesse-Homburg.

The attention which the Princess extended to certain of her chosen friends, appears to have been quite extraordinary. Thus, Lady Harcourt, wife of the second Earl, says: “Once, when I was ill and confined to the house for six weeks, I received from her in that time 143 letters.” The crosses of life, its joys and sorrows, with adventures which vividly show how different those times were from our own, all in turn come in for a share of attention. The journey between Windsor and Weymouth was then a familiar one, and it was possible even for Royalty to meet with rough adventures on the road. On October, 3, 1792, the Princess writes: “Anything so disgusting as the breakfast at Woodgate’s Inn, on the way from Weymouth, I thank God I never saw before and never wish to see again. Bad butter, tea, coffee, bread, etc.; nothing to eat but boiled eggs, which were so hard that I could not eat them. So I returned to the carriage just as I got out—starved.” Anxieties connected with public affairs and the wars gave far more serious trouble, however. The brothers of the Princess, the Duke of York, and the father of the present Duke of Cambridge, were with the army on the Continent in the summer of 1793, and when news came that the heroes were “within sixty yards of Valencienne,” their sister turned sick at thought of the peril; but the Queen, their mother, showed “such an uncommon share of fortitude,” that she would not even speak about it. Still more alarming was the King’s being attacked by the mob when on his way to open Parliament. A bullet even entered the royal carriage, the street crowd following “in an insolent manner, moaning and screaming.” In private the Queen cried over that adventure; “but I, who naturally cry a great deal, scarcely shed a tear,” remarks Elizabeth. “It was indeed very horrid,” she adds; “and my poor ears, I believe, will never get the better of the groans I heard on the Thursday in the Park, and my eyes of the sight of that mob!” A plot to murder the King, and to attack the Tower, the Bank and the prisons, and on account of which Colonel Despard and six others were executed, followed in 1801. In May, 1810, the Duke of Cumberland was attacked while in bed by a servant. “My brother, by all accounts, has been mercifully preserved by the interference of a wise and good Providence, but sadly wounded,” remarks the Princess; and then she adds, “We live in such a state of constant anxiety, that upon my word when I rise in the morning I feel, ‘What will happen before night?’”

Things happened beyond what were looked for, so hard and troublous were the times; but the heaviest trials of the Royal family culminated in the blindness and insanity of the King and in the death of the Princess Charlotte in November, 1817. As regarded the old monarch, the distress occasioned by his condition was for others rather than for himself; personally, his bodily health was good, he was happy in his mind, and found something wherewith to amuse himself through each day.

There is one letter relating to the death of the Princess Charlotte which affords us a vivid glimpse into the inner circle of the Royal family in November, 1817—

“Just after we had set down to dinner at six, Gen. Taylor was asked out; our hearts misgave us; he sent out for Lady Ilchester, which gave us a moment for to be sure that something dreadful had happened: the moment he came in my mother said, ‘I am sure it is all over,’ and he desired her to go upstairs. You may conceive that the horror, sorrow, and misery was far beyond show, for it struck the heart, and no tear would fall after such a dreadful shock.... It is indeed most tremendous, but it is the Lord’s doing, and we must with great humility bow, and kiss the rod, and remember that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and that all that proceeds from that hand is right; and that He does all things for the best.”

This faith in God was as characteristic of the King as it was of this favourite daughter. It is true that at the time of Princess Charlotte’s death George III. knew nothing of the crushing sorrow which had come upon the Royal family; but the King had very remarkable lucid intervals in his insanity when his Christian fervour never failed to find expression. It had been so before his intellect had become finally clouded, however.

At that crisis of danger from the mob already referred to, the King sought to calm the feelings of excited peers, when about to step into his carriage after opening Parliament, by saying—

“Well, my lords, one person is proposing this, and another is supposing that, forgetting that there is One above us all Who is disposing of everything, on Whom alone we depend.”

After her marriage in 1818, the Princess was thoroughly happy with her husband, the Landgrave Frederick VI. of Homburg. Some would ridicule the state and ceremonial of the little court as being a mimicry of the Royal magnificence of greater nations; but it was picturesque, full of interest, and probably gave far more satisfaction or enjoyment than courtiers found either at London or Paris. At all events, while she remained thoroughly English, and never even quite conquered the German language, the Princess would speak of her own “dear little Homburg” in the language of genuine affection. After the death of the Landgrave, who expired April 2, 1829, through influenza affecting an old wound received in the wars, she refers to the palace as “My own dear home, once the happiest of happy homes.”

Certain fashionable people in London made it their business to ridicule the Landgrave; but all impartial readers will see that his character was superior to that of his detractors.

The Princess lived for about twenty-two years after her marriage, and during half that period she was a widow. In some respects, to the English reader, this was the more interesting period of a quietly interesting life. Home life afforded genuine pleasure, and while there may have been no pretentious magnificence, gardens, pictures and books afforded tasteful recreation, though the poor were not forgotten. The Princess even lent books to such friends as could be trusted with them.

“If you wish to take any home, I shall be happy to lend them, knowing you to be careful,” she writes to Miss Swinburne. “I have been obliged to give it up here, for if you could have seen some that were returned to me you would have been disgusted; I was quite provoked.”

Unhappily, the ill-usage of books is not confined to Germany. On many matters strong common-sense opinions are expressed. She does not accept exaggerated local gossip; and though she never had measles, she says, “I have no fears, I trust in God, and don’t let myself think about catching anything, otherwise I should be miserable.”

We have glimpses of Brighton as it was sixty or seventy years ago, when the reigning sovereign had a palace there.

“It appears as if it was a petty London, and all the fine ladies come down in parties to enjoy a few days of the sea and back again in no time,” writes the Princess in December, 1832.

There was a great procession to celebrate the town being made into a parliamentary borough by the Reform Bill of 1832; but “why they would not turn it at once into a marine city or town, I cannot think. It was large enough when I was there and now much increased.”

Early in 1835 we find the Princess at the Pavilion on a visit to her brother William IV.

“I generally drive out with my brother,” she writes. “He goes out, and stays out till the lamps are well lighted, when we come in; to-day the dear Queen is gone with him, so I may remain quiet.”

Political feeling still ran high, but Princess Elizabeth confessed to hating politics. “I had rather talk of winter potatoes, though a very mealy subject.”

In 1833, being over sixty, she realised that she was growing old.

“I am still from all accounts a fine old lady,” she remarks. “My looking-glass tells me at times rather tall, and I say to you with truth that no one enjoys more their old age than me, and am convinced that I have been a much happier being since the spring and summer of life are over—so many things I do and can do without bearing anything unpleasant.” She was able even to wear a winter tippet which her sister Augusta presented. “I look like a bear in it; but what signifies looks when health is in question?”

As time passed, Elizabeth had other reminders that she was growing old.

“I blush to think how often I am late of a morning, which is not like me, but my poor legs require time,” she writes in November, 1833. “First I read my serious readings, then write, and do what business I must do, and of late I have had a good deal of what I call parish business, settling work for the poor and trying to content them if possible.” She seems to have cultivated her mind in a wholesome way without harbouring any foolish ambitions. “I have taught myself to see everything with pleasure and without envy,” she remarks, and added later, “Without religion there can be no peace, no order, no blessing.”

The Princess was struck with the excess of luxury in England in 1836. “More jewels and more extravagance than ever.”

It was then that she saw the last of her brother William IV., whose death in the following year she sincerely deplored. Elizabeth thus survived to see the opening of the present reign; but she belonged too much to a former age and to a different order of things to have much sympathy with the new and more promising outlook of the Victorian era.

The memorial volume which Mr. Yorke has so well edited is of considerable interest and of permanent value.

G. H. P.

[VARIETIES.]

He Threw Away the Stone.

The haughty favourite of an oriental monarch once in the public street threw a stone at a poor dervish or priest.

The dervish did not dare to throw it back at the man who had assaulted him, for he knew the favourite was very powerful. So he picked up the stone and put it carefully in his pocket, saying to himself: “The time for revenge will come by-and-by, and then I will repay him for it.”

Not long afterwards this same dervish, in walking through the city, saw a great crowd coming towards him. He hastened to see what was the matter, and found to his astonishment that his enemy, the favourite who had fallen into disgrace with the king, was being paraded through the principal streets on a camel, exposed to the jests and insults of the populace.

The dervish, seeing all this, hastily grasped the stone which he carried in his pocket. “The time,” he said, “has now come for my revenge, I will repay him for his insulting conduct.”

But after considering a moment he threw the stone away, saying: “The time for revenge never comes, for if our enemy is powerful, revenge is dangerous as well as foolish; and if he is weak and wretched, then revenge is worse than foolish, it is mean and cruel. And in all cases it is wicked and forbidden.”

When Things go Wrong.

What’s the use of wooing trouble,
And of nursing every sorrow?
Though to-day is black as Egypt,
There’s another day to-morrow.
Lightly treat each hour’s distresses—
Sing a song for gloom to borrow;
Mirth and cheer can chase all phantoms—
There’s another day to-morrow.

Why They Hanged the Dogs.

On one of the early visits to Scotland of Sir Edwin Landseer, the famous animal painter, he stopped at a village and took a great deal of notice of the dogs, jotting down rapid sketches of them on a bit of paper.

Next day, on resuming his journey, he was horrified to find dogs suspended from trees in all directions, or drowned in the river with stones round their necks.

He stopped a weeping urchin who was hurrying off with a pet pup in his arms, and learned to his dismay that he was supposed to be an excise officer, who was taking note of all the dogs he saw in order to prosecute the owners for unpaid taxes.

Charity as it ought to be.—If our mercy to the poor is to be true mercy, it must never be careless giving, dictated by mere sentimental impulse. Sentiment may be nobler than insensibility, but it often does more harm. The Samaritan would have been no good example for us if he had passed on with an easy conscience after administering the two pence and had omitted to consider whether the special needs of the case did not also require oil and wine.

The Average Woman.—We have been favoured with this definition of the average woman:—She is lovable but limited, for on the north side she is bounded by servants; on the south by children; on the east by her ailments, and on the west by her clothes.

Take a Right View of Life.—It is a sad thing to begin life with low conceptions of it. It may not be possible for a girl to measure life, but it is possible for her to say, “I am resolved to put life to its noblest and best use.”

Triple Acrostic I.

In yonder bower, one glorious May,
Three lovely sisters grew;
One, in imperial bright array
Of richest purple hue;
One, who conceal’d her drooping head
Amid her foliage green;
And one with fragrant petals spread,
Our beauteous Summer-Queen.

1. Waster of time, of mind, of health,
This useless creature see:
Yet once, in print, he gather’d wealth
And greatly sought was he.

2. From the north-east adventurers came
And built this City fair;
They call’d it by the river’s name
And yet—no river’s there!

3. A monster was to be destroy’d,
A hero claim’d the feat;
Alas! the means that he employ’d
Were sadly incomplete.
My ready help he needs would ask,
Which I was prompt to give,
Or else he must forego his task
And let the creature live:
While he, with heavy axe in hand,
Struck off each slimy head,
I tear’d the wound with flaming brand
And laid the monster dead.

4. ’Tis sometimes good, and sometimes bad,
And sometimes none at all;
This in his belt the Roman had,
Sharp-pointed, bright, and small.
For centuries it fix’d remain’d,
And might have kept so still
But that a Pontiff pow’r obtain’d
To change it at his will.

Ximena.

[MISCHIEVOUS JACK.]

“Jack” sunneth himself.
He studieth Entomology.
He disdaineth the Fair Sex.
He arrangeth the Table.

I am gradually learning to estimate rightly the responsibility of having a jackdaw loose upon the premises.

There is really no way of circumventing Jack’s craftiness except by keeping him shut up all day in an outdoor aviary. I feel sorry to be driven to this course, and would far rather let him roam where he pleases; but his mischievous pranks have become unendurable.

I thought to-day I had made a great discovery, and that by placing a large stuffed flamingo at the open French window I should effectually frighten the jackdaw from entering.

I found him in the drawing-room on my writing-table busy about some evil deed, so I held up the great stuffed bird, at which Jack cast one horrified glance and then fled precipitately out at the window as if his last hour had come. Now, I thought, by placing the flamingo near the window, I could leave the room with an easy mind. Vain hope! I came back after a few minutes and found the impertinent jackdaw hopping about as happy as a king. He had pulled to pieces a rare foreign insect I had just been setting on a piece of cork. He had overturned all the small curios he could find, had pulled all the pins out of a pin-cushion, and, worst of all, he had opened a Mudie book and torn its map and pages to ribbons. That book will have to become my property and remain a monument of Jack’s misplaced energy.

It was humiliating to think how he must have chuckled at my flamingo. He had seen through the device at once and had no idea of submitting to be scared away by such a bogie.

During the winter months we do not often have weather which will admit of open windows, so Jack exercised his talent for mischief out of doors by hiding the padlock of the aviary, pulling up flower labels, and drawing nails out of the walls. In these varied occupations he managed to spend his hours of idleness.

As a rare treat he was sometimes allowed to bask on the fender before the fire, and, charmed by the delicious warmth, he would assume the various attitudes shown in the illustration. His wings and tail expanded, his head on one side and beak wide open, he looked like a dying bird, but we knew that in reality he was in a state of ecstasy.

When next summer arrived Jack was again kept in the aviary, and I am sorry to have to reveal a very dark page in his moral character. He was usually content with raw meat and sopped bread; but, alas, he much preferred to catch his own dinner! And when, attracted by his food, innocent little robins, chaffinches, and sparrows found their way into his domain, I grieve to record the dreadful fact that none came out alive! Jack feasted on their small bodies, and left only a little bunch of feathers to show what he had been doing.

I have said enough to prove that Jack is neither to be loved nor respected; but he is unquestionably clever, and evidently has his own thoughts and ideas.

He will fly at one’s hand like a fury even when food is being given him; but when his mood changes and he wishes to be caressed, he picks up a twig or a dead leaf. This is a signal of peace, and whilst he continues to hold it in his bill he is quite safe, and may be stroked and petted.

One day in the height of summer Jack was perfectly electrified by a visit from six lively young magpies. The aviary door happened to be open, and these birds came hopping in with their usual free and easy manner, chattering to each other and coolly abstracting any morsels of food which suited their taste. At first Jack tried to drive out these audacious visitors, but they ignored him altogether and at last he had to stand aside and watch their depredations, a very discomfited and astonished bird. The magpies came at intervals for several days in succession, and then I suppose they went off to the woods, for we saw them no more.

It is rather curious that the mating instinct has not led Jack into the bands of matrimony. I have seen several attractive specimens of his own kind making overtures to him, but he treats them all with lofty disdain and elects to remain a bachelor.

Perhaps next year he may yield to the fascinations of a wild mate, and settle happily somewhere in my woods. It would be the best thing that could happen, only I fear we should all eagerly bid him good-bye without the addition of au revoir.

Eliza Brightwen.

[NEW DRIED FRUITS.]

By DORA DE BLAQUIÈRE.

Most of my readers can recall, I fancy, the days when we had only prunes and Normandy pippins in the way of dried fruits. The dried apricots, apples, and plums of the present day are very modern and recent gifts to a grateful world. So recent are they indeed that the ignorance about them is very great; and, strange to say, the grocers who have them for sale have not been supplied as they should have been with small printed papers describing how to cook them.

In using the term “dried fruits,” you will notice, I hope, that I am dealing with what may be called stewing fruits; for, though we stew, or can stew, raisins, figs, and even currants, I believe the first treatment of these fruits is not to cook them in that manner. Raisins and currants speak to us more distinctly of our Christmas mince-pies and plum puddings, and of a regular dessert dish throughout the year in some houses, than of any other kind of cooking.

The stewing of raisins was introduced, I believe, by vegetarians, and in this form with a flavouring of lemon-peel. They are not at all bad when added to a milk pudding or some blancmange.

The stewing of dried figs comes almost under the same description, and their chief objection lies in their extreme sweetness, which is a cause of quite unmerited and needless toothache at times. The best way of cooking figs will always be in the way of a fig pudding, which is an excellent though rich dish.

Dried apples have always been a great household requisite in cold countries like Canada and the northern states of America, and I remember that the making of them constituted a very large part of the many winter preparations which used to be necessary when the country was less civilised than it is now, the fruit less plentiful, and the means of keeping it very imperfect.

It was not always easy to guard against the frost, which penetrated the ground to a depth of four or even five feet when the winters were too snowless. On these occasions when the earth is left bare and without her warm coating of snow, the frost has been known to penetrate even six feet into the ground in exposed places. This fact is verified in cold countries like Canada in a very painful manner when graves have to be dug. So difficult is this that in large cities where there are many to dig a cemetery hall is built to contain the bodies of those who die in the winter, so that the frost may be out of the ground before the graves are dug.

This will explain to you why in Canada all kinds of root crops and apples must be so carefully guarded from frost; and when the country was less settled, and even to-day in the less inhabited parts, the apples are still dried in a primitive manner. They are peeled generally by a small machine, then quartered and cored, and strung on long threads by means of a coarse needle. Then they are dried, either near the stove or else in the sun; but this last is not often possible, because of the lateness of the season. The apples thus dried are very good, but if cooked carelessly are apt to be rather tough.

In Italy figs are dried in the sun by the peasantry. Each fig is cut open, but not divided, and carefully dried. Then, when dried, they are closed together so as to look like whole figs again, and strung one by one on the long flexible mulberry twigs. They are very good and are less sweet than the dried fig of commerce, as no sugar is added to them in drying.

Last year I saw quantities of figs dried by the peasantry in this manner for sale in Switzerland, where they appeared to be quite a novelty. I could not find out where they came from; but I daresay from the Italian canton of Ticino, or, as the French call it, Tessin. This is, of course, warmer than its sister cantons on the northern side of the Alps. I have not seen these yet in England, but there have been some Californian dried figs that were very good for eating, and perhaps we shall see more of them in the future, as the market for them grows more assured.

Dried figs are said by the scientists to contain nerve and muscle food, heat and waste, but to be bad for the liver. The same is said of dried prunes, but they afford the best and highest kind of nerve or brain food. They also supply heat and waste; but they are not muscle feeding.

All stone fruits are said to be injurious for people who suffer from the liver and should be used rather cautiously.

Apples are thought a most valuable food in every way but one—they do not afford staying properties, but they supply the highest nerve and muscle food.

If you be fond of almonds, you may like to know that they afford no heat, but give the highest brain, nerve, and muscle food. I hope this applies to the salted almonds which are so popular.

The process of drying is called “desiccation” or, usually in America, “evaporated.” The original desiccator is an apparatus much used in chemistry and physics and the word comes from the Latin desicco, “I dry up”—meaning that the water is evaporated out of the fruit or any substance to be dried. This idea was carried out into the drying up of the water and fruit juices for commercial purposes. An oven with trays in it to hold the fruit is one of the forms of using heat, and in Lower California the heat of the sun is utilised for the drying of prunes. Some time ago there were notices of the commencement of this industry and the importation of work-people from the neighbourhood of Tours.

The ordinary prunes sold in the shops are the fruit of the St. Julian plum, a common species which is grown everywhere in France for the purpose. The best French or dessert plums come from Provence, and the Californian plums must be of the same variety as the Brignole plum. The latest competitor in the English market is Bosnia, and those which I have tried were quite as good as the French plums. Under Austrian rule, Bosnia has developed wonderfully, and the climate is a delightful one, well suited to fruit growing.

The best of all the French dried prunes come from Provence, the land of poetry and romance. They are made of the kinds of prunes called the Perdrigon blanc, and Violette, and Prune d’Ast. The two former come under one category and are called Pruneaux de Brignole, from the place where they are prepared, the small town of Brignole, in Provence, a name I am sure you will have often seen on the boxes of prunes used for dessert. The common kinds of prunes are gathered by merely shaking the trees; but those for preparing as French plums must be gathered in the morning, before the sun is up, by taking hold of the stalk without touching the fruit and laying each plum very gently on vine leaves in baskets. The latter must be filled without the plums being allowed to touch each other, and then they are carried to the fruit-room and exposed to the sun and air for three or four days, after which they become quite soft. The next process is to put them on trays into a spent oven and shut up quite closely for twenty-four hours. Then they are taken out, the oven is re-heated, and made rather warmer, and the plums are put in again for the same time; then they are taken out, carefully turned over, and the oven is heated to one-fourth hotter than it was before, and the plums are returned to it again for the third time, and after remaining the twenty-four hours, are taken out and left exposed till they become quite cold. Then comes the most curious part of the process, which, when once explained to me, was a solution of an enigma over which I had much wondered, namely, why the stones of the good French plums are loose and unattached, while those of the common prune are so much more fixed in the fleshy substance of the fruit. This part of the process is called “rounding,” and is performed by turning the stones in the plums without breaking the skins, and the two ends are then pressed between the thumb and finger to flatten the fruit. Then they are once more laid on the sieves for drying and placed in a rather hot oven for one hour, the oven being closely shut. Lastly, they are put again into a cool oven, left for twenty-four hours, when the process is ended, and they are packed in bottles or boxes for sale and exportation. Now I have given this long account, taken from a recent authority, because I know my readers of the “G. O. P.” are world-spread, and because this is the kind of process adopted with any kind of dried fruit; and an ordinary brick oven for bread-baking can be perfectly well used for doing it. All varieties of the plum can, I am told, be dried in this manner, some, of course, with better success than others.

After the prunes come the kind which, I daresay, most of my readers have seen in the grocers’ shops, namely, the crystal or dried yellow plums, which are likewise said to be from California. They are so-called silver plums, and are yellow, not black, and were first seen in 1897, I believe. They require soaking over-night in just enough water to swell them, and the next day should be put into a prepared syrup, which has had a little lemon peel boiled in it, and very slowly stewed, without breaking them. I find a war rages about this question of soaking dried fruit over-night, as many people consider that long slow stewing is equally good, or better.

Apricots are amongst the dried fruits that have been introduced within the last few years; and although they may be a novelty to us, they have been used in the East in this way for centuries. The apricot grows well as a wall fruit in England, and is interesting because it was brought here and first grown in the gardens of Henry VIII. by his gardener, Wolfe, who was a Roman Catholic priest, and who brought it from Italy. Indeed, it was during the reign of this monarch, and the subsequent Tudors, that horticulture began to make such progress in England; and no politics made them forget the interests of their gardens, to which, as a family, they appear to have been much attached.

The dried peach we have not yet seen, but it is much used in that way in New Jersey, Delaware, and in the Southern States; but probably canning has rendered drying needless. Dried pears are also of ancient origin, and I find them excellent in the present day, though I consider they need careful doing. Any recipe for the stewing of winter pears will answer for dried ones; and they must be soaked over-night to ensure their being tender. It is well to remember that the less water used, the more flavour in the pear, and the syrup should not be very abundant.

And now we come to that most useful of all fruits—the apple. This has been dried in many forms, and canned as well. The most recent are the evaporated apple rings—the apple cut into rounds horizontally through the fruit. When these first came out they were called “Alden apple rings,” probably from the town or district where they were grown. They are said to be made from greenings—the best of American cooking apples—and one pound of the apples rings is said to represent six pounds of ordinary apples. The best recipe for cooking these is an American one, and in this the food is required to be soaked in a pie-dish in cold water—just enough to cover it—for four hours; then, without pouring off the water, add sugar, a little lemon rind or spice, and then put the dish in a slow oven and stew very gently till sufficiently cooked. If intended for a tart, soak as directed and stew gently in a slow oven for half an hour before adding the crust, or the latter will be done before the apples are sufficiently cooked.

The apples, which are dried whole, must be rather differently treated. Take about a dozen apples, place them in an earthenware or porcelain-lined vessel, and add about a pint and a half of water, and let them soak for seven or eight hours. Then add sugar, spice, and the rind of a lemon to your taste; put them all together as they are into a porcelain-lined saucepan, and stew gently for an hour. If a more recherche dish be required than merely the apples plainly stewed, a little whipped cream may be inserted in the place from whence the core has been taken, and some cream poured round them in a glass dish.

“It is simply absurd,” says a recipe writer in an American paper, “to soak evaporated apples over-night”; so, as this is a case of doctors differing, I must give the directions which follow. Place the evaporated apples in a saucepan, cover with water, and boil till done; flavour to taste, and use for sauce, tarts or conserve. Now this recipe I have also found good; and I know that the writer considers that soaking or leaving the apple rings too long in water renders them tasteless and vapid.

It seems strange that the subject of dried fruits, save and except the ancient pippins of Normandy, should be quite ignored in our cookery books; and yet there can be no doubt of their value as foods, and adjuncts to other things, at a time when fruit is dear and scarce. They are always inexpensive; a pound goes a long way, and, as a rule, if well done, they are liked by the little folks.

But alas, the general remembrance of stewed prunes, apples or apricots is enough to make anyone dislike them, sent up as they generally are in a slop of tasteless, coloured, watery fluid. If we only examine into the ordinary methods of cooking them, we shall see the cook washing them first in one water, and then in another; perhaps letting them remain for half an hour in soak, then putting them into more water, with a cupful of sugar in a dirty saucepan on the fire, where she boils it violently, and finishes it in half an hour.

Now, from beginning to end, this is all wrong. In the first place, you must remember that the evaporated fruit took a long time to do. The moisture was not removed from it in one hour, nor two, but took a long time. So if you want to restore it to them you must give them time also. Thus, perhaps, you will agree with me that the fruit must be soaked for at least twenty-four hours, especially in the case of apricots and peaches; and the water should cover the fruit to the depth of an inch. When you are ready to stew the fruit, take it out and put it carefully into a porcelain-lined saucepan; then pour the water in which they have been soaking upon the fruit, leaving at the bottom any dregs there may be. If not sufficient to cover it, you must add a little more, then give an hour’s very quiet boiling; and a few minutes before you remove it from the fire, add a little sugar, and use a silver spoon to stir it in. I prefer to take the fruit out when I add the sugar, for fear of breaking and spoiling the look of the fruit; and then the syrup is boiled up once or twice, and poured over the fruit. Peaches require rather more cooking than apricots.

Apples and pears need care in the cooking, and also in the flavouring; and the best thing for both is the juice and grated rind of a lemon. But before flavouring, you should taste the fruit after stewing, as you will then judge whether you should add sugar, or the rind of a lemon, and not the juice. The sugar should be put in first and thoroughly dissolved, and then the flavouring. If you flavour first, and sugar after, you will need double the amount of sugar. Prunes, raisins, dates, and figs can all be stewed in the same way; and if you will only remember that haste is not possible in preparing dried fruit for table, you will always be successful.

[QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.]

A Correspondent asks: “Will the Editor of The Girl’s Own Paper be so kind as to let ‘Dora’ know through his columns, what author first made use of the phrase, ‘Oil on the troubled waters’.”

Although we cannot with absolute certainty point Dora to the first author who made use of the expression, she may be interested to know that it has its origin in antiquity.

Pliny the Elder (23-79 A.D.) says in his Natural History (Book ii., Sect. 234)—

“Everything is soothed by oil, and this is the reason why divers send out small quantities of it from their mouths, because it smoothes every part which is rough.”

Plutarch (46?-120?) asks in his Symposiacs (Book viii., Question ix)—

“Why does pouring oil on the sea make it clear and calm? Is it for that the winds, slipping the smooth oil, have no form, nor cause any waves?”

The Venerable Bede relates in his Ecclesiastical History (completed in 735) a story bearing on this point, which he says he had from “a most creditable man in Holy Orders.”

A young priest was to set out by land, but return by water, to escort a maiden destined for the bride of King Oswy. He sought a farewell blessing from St. Aidan, Bishop of Lindisfarne, who gave him a cruse of holy oil, saying, “I know that when you go abroad, you will meet with a storm and contrary wind; but do you remember to cast this oil I give you into the sea, and the wind shall cease immediately.” A storm did arise, and the young priest, pouring oil on the waves, reduced them to a calm.

Apart from any suggestion of the miraculous, the effect of oil on rough waters has been observed in modern times. It is stated that Professor Horsford, by emptying a vial of oil on the sea in a stiff breeze, stilled the surface, and Commodore Wilkes, of the United States, saw the waves calmed in a storm off the Cape of Good Hope by oil leaking from a whale ship.

The pictorial application of this physical fact is so obvious that it could not help passing into popular usage.

“Mercia,” “The Would-be Wise One,” and “Nothing but Leaves,” all ask us in effect the same question, the full meaning of self-culture, and how it is to be attained.

In ways too many to particularise, “our girls” are anxiously seeking this end. From all quarters of the globe questions come to us; not perhaps expressed in the same direct fashion as the one above, but showing an eagerness in some way to develop latent faculty, to improve the whole nature. What, then, is self-culture? It is briefly personal cultivation of self; the bringing forth, or “educing” talent and capability, the improvement of taste, the storing of the mind with what will elevate and help and inspire. There is the same difference between a “cultured” and an “uncultured” person as between a cultivated and uncultivated plot of garden-ground. The chief difficulty lies in having to perform the affair for oneself. To yield one’s nature to trained and skilful teachers is delightful, but when no such teachers are at hand, the task assumes a different complexion, and looks well-nigh impossible.

But there are teachers whom everyone can command. The girl to whom Newnham and Girton are undreamed-of possibilities, whose education at school has been only just long enough to make her crave for more, can call to her aid the greatest and wisest of mankind. Self-culture by books is within the reach of all.

What books? and how shall they be studied?